THE SIAMESE CAT
or two. All the smells were insipid or unpromising. Angry voices filled the shop, without. No, the place was not comfortable. Chao Phya began leaping for the tiny window cut through the split bamboo of the rear wall. It was very high: he fell back, leapt again, clawed his way up ward, fell back, persevered in leaping and scratching.…
Had maledictions any force, Chao Phya never would have lived to do this; for Scarlett, racing in pursuit, had panted them so long as he could spare the breath. Trusting in the invariable delay of steamers, he had—to the amazement of Laura and her aunt—sprung down the gangway and across the docks. Fresh hope had changed to fresh rage, as he saw that crouching, fawn-and-seal-brown imp thread uncaptured among the chattering natives, wriggle from under the Khek urchin, outstrip the Tamil, and at last—so nearly taken unawares
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